


You Never Miss the Water

by leopion



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, Mild Language, Post Reichenbach, Psychological Trauma, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-01
Updated: 2012-11-01
Packaged: 2017-11-17 12:58:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leopion/pseuds/leopion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To her now, he is just a famous detective. No more, no less. Post Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Never Miss the Water

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PetraTodd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PetraTodd/gifts).



> Happy birthday, PetraTodd! You are a really amazing writer. You know that feeling when you just start following a fandom/pairing, and you read all of these great fics, but usually there is one particular fic or author that tips the scales and prompts you to actually put your pen to paper? For me and Sherlolly, that author was you. So, thank you!
> 
> It'd probably have been better if I could write something happier as a present, but I thought it was fitting to dedicate my first Sherlolly fic, which happens to be this angst-filled story, to you. Plus, you did mention angst in your Tumblr post, so I figured I could allow myself some leeway. I hope that you will still enjoy it.
> 
> As a bi-product of having [this lovely art](http://alicexz.tumblr.com/post/29645534274/lexie-very-generously-gave-me-permission-to-color) as my wallpaper (on both my lappie and phone), I ended up realising that a rain scene would suit the story, so I guess this story turns out to be some sort of prompt-fill for alicexz's challenge too. 
> 
> Many thanks to Silvia for betaing and for letting me unashamedly borrow the title idea from one of her wonderful Harry Potter fics, [_Until the well runs dry_](http://dracobigbang.accio.nu/art/p110-b.htm).

**I**

*

The funeral took place one week after the fall. She cautioned him against going, given that he had not yet fully recovered from his injuries. She had known her advice would fall on deaf ears just like before, when she’d forced him into taking the bed only to find him sprawled on the couch every time she’d come back from work. However, she’d still kept reminding him every night that the couch would not help at all with his two broken ribs. This time, she did not stop repeating her warning that going out would be too much of a strain on his body, until he flagged down his cab and got into it. In their bizarre new arrangement, she felt as though she needed to be the voice of reasons somehow. All the same, she never made a fuss when he did not comply, which was almost always. Emotionally, she knew, it was unfair to deny him what little he had left.

There were only a handful of people at the service: John, Greg, Mrs Hudson, herself, his brother, and a regal middle-aged woman whom she guessed was his mother. She was glad that Mycroft Holmes had ensured it was private enough for haters not to show up at the cemetery. Still, she wished the privacy hadn’t also prevented the people he had helped, the ones who genuinely wanted to pay their respect. She wished he could see that there were many others who believed in Sherlock Holmes.

She was crying in earnest, her vision a watery blur of flowers falling into the grave. She had to stifle a sob as she too released the white chrysanthemum from her trembling hand. She knew he was watching from afar, and she could almost picture him remark somewhat sarcastically—once they got back to her flat—that it was amazing how she’d been able to bawl her eyes out, knowing it hadn’t been him in the casket. It would be his odd way of complimenting her on playing her part well, she supposed. But, truth be told, she wasn’t playing any parts. The look on John’s face alone was enough to break her heart.

She, John, and Mrs Hudson were the last to depart. Mrs Hudson had asked her to come to Baker Street for a cuppa afterwards, and she just couldn’t say no. In a way, she felt an obligation to be there for them despite the torture she was suffering from not being able to tell the truth. She would never break her promise to him, she was certain. Nevertheless, as she went outside with Mrs Hudson to allow John a private moment, she found herself hoping that he would find some way to tell John. Only he could figure out how to do so without compromising their safety. Her fragile hope shattered when John re-joined her and Mrs Hudson in the cab, the pain in his eyes still all too real.

That night, she came home to an empty flat. 

*

Three weeks had passed since he’d left, and it felt like she was living in some sort of crooked reality, caught up between the universe before his ‘suicide’ and the one after it. There were times in the lab when she thought she’d heard him asking for something only to realise, seconds later, that he wasn’t there. Every time the door of her morgue creaked open, she half-expected him to waltz in and demand a body for a case. And then, at night, she would wake at the faintest of sounds and end up checking her whole flat to see if it was him coming back. Sometimes she wondered whether it would have been easier if she had thought that he’d died that day, jumping from Barts’ roof. She always scolded herself afterwards, of course, for undermining what the others were going through. Yet, she could not deny that the burden of not knowing how he was, of not knowing whether he was still alive, was weighing down her heart. And worries did not fade; they only intensified with time. 

It was on the day after John’s visit to the morgue that she came to a decision. If John could volunteer to go to Africa with _Médecins Sans Frontières_ in order to get away from Sherlock’s memories, then maybe she could do something like that too. She could move to a new city, get a new job, start a new life. She would never forget him, she knew. She would still want to hear news about him, once every few months perhaps. But at least, without the constant reminders surrounding her, he would not occupy her mind all the time like he did now, and then she would be able to cope.

That was why she changed her mind about his brother’s offer to put her in a witness protection programme. Mycroft had come to meet her at Barts and proposed it the day after the funeral. She had politely declined because she hardly needed the protection, because to the world, she hardly mattered to Sherlock Holmes. Now, however, it seemed to be the perfect solution. She would get a chance to move on... well, mostly, but she would nonetheless retain a connection to him through his brother. It was going to be the only condition on her part: however occasional or obscure the messages might be, she was still to be informed on how Sherlock was doing.

She dialled Mycroft’s number after her morning shift. He told her that his PA would come to pick her up. They were going to discuss the details at his office, which was fair enough. They did have her whole life story to figure out.

Mycroft greeted her cordially with his ever-enigmatic smile. ‘Would you care for a cup of tea?’

She nodded.

*

It was all over the papers: genius detective coming back from the death. The details of how he’d faked his death remained a mystery, but apparently, he received help from someone at St Bart’s. The name was not mentioned, for good reasons. Yet, somehow, it was clear to her that to take such a risk, this person, whoever he or she was, must have truly loved Sherlock Holmes. 

The funny thing was, she couldn’t exactly recall her opinion on the scandal three years ago. Surely, she must have got at least some intuitive judgement of whether or not Holmes was a fraud, but she guessed she just never cared all that much about the media. Then again, that certainly did not explain the strange flutter of her heart every time she saw him on the news.

~~~~~~~

**II**

*

He did not wait for her to come back. He did not want to bother himself with the inconvenience of goodbyes. He knew what she would say: he should stay at least a while longer, wait for his body to completely heal, wait for the scandal to die down. Not unreasonable, he had to admit, but certainly over-cautious. He could not wait any longer. The sooner he dealt with Moriarty’s assassins, the sooner he would get his old life back.

The thing was, if he actually heard the words of caution coming from her mouth, he might just listen to her and stay. He couldn’t afford that.

*

He still checked on Baker Street occasionally, even following John and Mrs Hudson to the cemetery once. Yet, he convinced himself that the chase was too intense, too rapid and capricious for him to have time to check on her. Besides, she was aware that he was alive; she would recognise his presence at St Bart’s or in her neighbourhood, and then... No, the important thing was, he was certain that she would hold up all right. 

*

Four months into the mission, he encountered a dead end. He required someone to listen to his deductions and, occasionally, supply a second opinion. Only two people in the entire world knew that he was alive. His brother was out of the question, obviously. That was when he thought of her.

He knew as soon as he reached her block of flats. Window sills: dirty. Windows hadn’t been opened for at least three months, judging by the amount of dust. Her mailbox, doormat, plant pots, and finally the flat full of her things left abandoned, all confirmed his initial suspicion. He was not surprised to find a sleek, black car waiting when he came back outside.

He barged into Mycroft’s office, ignoring the fact that his brother’s PA had just asked him to wait. The woman had obviously known that he wouldn’t heed her request but merely said it for appearance’s sake.

‘Bring her back!’

His pompous git of a brother didn’t even spare him a glance, no doubt too busy shuffling through documents of national importance. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, dear brother.’

‘You know very well what I mean, Mycroft.’ He swept aside a hoard of Mycroft’s expensive stationery and leaned on the desk, his jaw clenched. ‘Molly Hooper. What have you done to her?’

His brother finally gazed up at him. ‘I was merely looking out for your safety.’

Unable to stand the sight of Mycroft’s smug face any longer, he drew back and strode across the room. The scenery outside Mycroft’s window was as dull as the man himself. He closed his eyes, and the images of her immediately took over his mind. ‘I trust Dr Hooper with my life.’

‘Yes, you have made it quite clear. But it is not her behaviour that I’m worried about. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.’

The last words snapped him out of his trance. He turned away from the window and back at Mycroft. ‘Just. Bring. Her. Back.’

‘I can’t. You know how it is. To ensure no failure, an antidote has never been created.’

‘Bullshit!’ He sneered, advancing towards the desk once again. ‘As if you don’t always have a safeguard for everything. In case the substance is mistakenly administered—’

‘Then no one is indispensable.’ Mycroft’s smirk reeked of the expectation that he would blurt that _she_ was. He would never give his brother the satisfaction, though. 

‘Give me the formula,’ he said instead.

‘Ah, intending to find the cure yourself, are you? This is exactly what I fear, Sherlock. Must I remind you that you haven’t touched even a smidgen of Moriarty’s organisation yet?’

As much as he despised the admission, his brother was right.

*

He figured out a new lead on his own, naturally. The updated information directed him to Russia, following the trail of one Sebastian Moran. The next time he was back in London, her flat had a new tenant. Mycroft had only kept it unoccupied until he’d discovered her gone, to make sure he would not cause any ruckus. He almost regretted not taking something of hers when he’d had the chance.

*

It had taken him three years to destroy the last of Moriarty’s web. John welcomed him back with a punch and a hug, as expected. Mrs Hudson was teary as he pecked on her cheek and muttered his apologies. Lestrade gave him an awkward pat on the back while the rest of the Yard glared daggers at him, as usual. The press made an enormous commotion out of his return, but soon enough, everything went back to normal, except one.

He acknowledged her assistance in faking his death, only to his circle of close friends. He did not ask after her, but they all volunteered what they knew: she had moved away about a month after his supposed suicide and hadn’t stayed in touch with anyone. He was all too content to let them believe so—it was just another big lie wrapped up in the truth.

From time to time, John told him that he should look for her and then thank her personally. ‘It is quite unnecessary. _She_ knows where _I_ am,’ was his customary response. Sometimes, he simply ignored John’s advice and questions altogether, but his flatmate was persistent. Only after three months of constant nagging did he finally let out a semblance of the truth: ‘It is most likely that she has started a new life, John, one that I do not wish to disturb.’ Subsequently, John knew not to broach the topic again.

Other than that, he never mentioned her in his conversations with anyone. He told himself that he only thought of her when the moronic new pathologist at Barts did something particularly vexing. It couldn’t be further from the truth. His methods, devised and perfected over the years, had failed to erase her from his mind palace.

Mycroft didn’t give him the formula, even after his resurrection. It was too late anyway. However, on occasion, he contemplated the idea of using it to make himself forget her. He absolutely abhorred the thought. It only served to prove one thing: how stupid, how desperate he could get, allowing sentiments to cloud his judgement.

*

The case wasn’t even a four, but John was off to enjoy his newly-wedded bliss and he was infinitely bored. Or, it could have been due to the address that was identical to the one he’d once overheard Mycroft mention on the phone: Bozeat, Northamptonshire. Either way, he was out of Baker Street almost as soon as the email arrived.

It wasn’t difficult for him to locate her workplace. He would need some medical attention at any rate. The mundanity of the case did not imply that he would not incur any injury; the presence of deliberation, or lack thereof, was entirely irrelevant. 

He arrived at the clinic where she was currently employed at a quarter to four. The whole kidnapping case had taken only two hours to resolve. He swiftly scanned the name plates displayed on the board. Mismatched typesetting. Varying levels of discolouration. Installed individually as each of them started out, then. His eyes fell on the approximately three-and-a-half-year-old plate.

‘I’d like to see Dr Louise Brealey.’

‘Dr Brealey is busy with another patient at the moment.’ The receptionist glanced uneasily at the gash on his left calf, where the material of his trousers had been stained a deep crimson. ‘May I suggest...’ She trailed off at his withering look.

*

She let out a little gasp as he entered the room, the slightest hint of a blush colouring her cheeks. There was recognition in her eyes, and for a fraction of a second, he almost let himself believe the impossible. But then, he realised. Of course, she would recognise him, unless she’d never read the papers or watched telly.

She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and quickly composed herself. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Holmes. Please—’

‘Sherlock,’ he interrupted, despite himself. ‘Please call me Sherlock.’

She seemed reluctant for a moment, during which he sat down on the bed, knowing it was to be her request. She smiled at him then. ‘Okay, Sherlock. I’ll just need to get my kit. It won’t be long.’

So, he watched as she prepared the necessary utensils, as she gently cleaned up his wound and then sutured it with the same precision he’d always admired. He could see the essence of his Molly in her. Even her appearance didn’t change much. She had grown her hair two inches longer than it had been before, but it was still pulled up in the same pony tail of chestnut brown waves, which tumbled down over her shoulder gracefully whenever she inclined her head. The jumper she wore under her white coat was slightly more form-fitting, but the cherry-red shade was still something she would have chosen back then. She’d still only put on light make-up, with her lipstick echoing the tone of her top.

He filed away every little element of her, convincing himself that they would only stay temporarily. There was one detail which he had seen from the beginning, which had come up again and again in his observations, but he’d chosen to ignore the deductions his brain made about it. Until now. Engagement ring: still shiny. Either new or regularly polished. Almost forgot it was there when pulling on her gloves. Slight indentation but no tan line once she’d taken it out. New it was, then. No more than three weeks, to be precise. Soft, contented smile as she removed the ring and carefully laid it on a smooth cotton handkerchief on her desk. She was happy. He should feel glad, if anything. Yet, he felt his chest tighten. 

He sighed as she placed a bandage over the stitches. ‘Thank you, Molly.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Thank you, Dr Brealey,’ he said to her.

‘You’re very welcome,’ she replied. ‘If I’m allowed to call you Sherlock, then you should call me Louise, though.’

He nodded and tested the name on his tongue. ‘Louise.’ 

It felt wrong.

*

He ended up standing under the eaves at the back of her clinic, drawing on a cigarette and looking out at the torrential rain. The burning sensation in his lungs had a calming effect that nicotine patches could never constitute. 

Even though she didn’t see him in the dimness, he was aware as soon as she stepped out from the backdoor. She looked up at the sky, hesitating momentarily before running out into the rain. Despite his better judgement, he ran after her. He caught up with her easily, opening his coat and raising one of the flaps over her head to shield her from the rain.

‘I shall walk you to the cafe. You forgot your coat there at lunch. You are also hoping to borrow an umbrella from a friend who works there. Correct?’

She was startled by his voice, he could tell. She whirled around to face him but then lost her footing due to the rain-sodden ground. He wrapped his free arm around her to prevent her fall, bringing their bodies almost pressing. As she tilted her head up to look at him, their faces became much too close.

‘How did you—oh, right—you are Sherlock Holmes. But then,’ she bit her lips uncertainly, ‘you do realise that I am engaged to be married, right?’

He sucked in a breath. Her words were merely the repetition of a fact he had already known after all. ‘Of course.’ He dropped his left hand from her waist. ‘Please just consider this as a small token of gratitude, for the aid with which you have provided me.’

‘It was hardly anything, really,’ she replied, shying away from him.

His lips curled up in a rueful smile. ‘It meant more than you can imagine.’

And that was how she agreed to go with him. They walked in relative silence. He kept his gaze straight ahead, but he could not turn off his other senses, which were all meticulously registering her movements, her warmth, and her scent mixing with that of the rain. He managed to keep his face impassive, however. Or so he’d thought.

‘You look sad,’ she began, after a while, ‘especially when I said I was... Oh God, sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. I mean...’

‘You remind me of someone,’ he cut in before she could continue. He had never realised just how observant she was in terms of other people’s emotions. True, she had been able to see him before the fall, when no one else had, but he had assumed that it’d come from years of observing him. Now, he was virtually a stranger, and she could still read him like a book. Then again, there was also another possibility: he’d let his guard down when he was with her, even after all this time. 

‘She was a remarkable woman,’ he added softly.

_She still is._

‘Oh,’ she said. She had her back to him, but he could envision her delicate lips forming into a perfect ‘O’, the small puff of air escaping from them crystallised because of the cold. ‘I am sorry.’

‘Don’t be. She’s in a happier place now.’

She peered up at him from under her long, dark lashes. It was a look of sympathy, of understanding that reminded him so much of the night when he’d come to ask for her help. In the end, she nodded but didn’t say anything else. He hated it when people made assumptions, but for once, he was glad that she did. 

Their journey was silent once more. They reached the cafe soon afterwards. She advised him to change the bandage as soon as he got home, given how it must be impossible to keep it clean in this heavy rain. Then, she bid him goodbye, but it wasn’t until she had disappeared completely behind the front door of the shop that he reciprocated.

‘Farewell, Molly Hooper,’ he whispered.

Maybe today he would finally be able to delete her. 

Maybe he never would.

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I can't resist the Loo Brealey reference (She was born in Bozeat, Northamptonshire :D). 
> 
> Thanks a lot for reading this. Reviews, concrits in particular, would be greatly appreciated :)


End file.
